Losers
by Sarah the Welsh One
Summary: AU- Wishverse fic. Cordelia died, so did Buffy. What would have happened to them if the amulet had not been smashed?
1. Default Chapter

(1)  
  
My eyes flicker open and alight on a vast, white expanse, that could be a  
  
ceiling, or a floor, depending on which way up I'm lying.  
  
Which way up *am* I lying?  
  
Oh, it's a ceiling. Wait, the whole room's white. At least I think it's a  
  
room. Lots of white, as far as I can see. This is probably what the fitting  
  
rooms in Macy's are going to be like after the new modern upgrade. In fact,  
  
this could be the fitting room in Macy's after the new modern upgrade, and I  
  
fell asleep while I was getting changed. Only I can't see the door, or a  
  
curtain, or any mirrors, and I'm fully clothed. So maybe I'm asleep and I  
  
fell into a Gap advert. Wait, wait. Cordelia Chase does *not* dream about  
  
Gap. In fact --  
  
Oh. Oh, God, I -- I --  
  
"Sure did, honey."  
  
Okay. Someone who sounds like the male version of Megan Mullally is in my  
  
dream? I mean, I died already. This is the worst nightmare ever. Then  
  
again... I haul myself to my feet, dusting down my shirt and skirt. Icky  
  
white dust clings to me. Euuww. Whoever is in charge of this place should  
  
look at the price tag of my outfit before they destroy it. Well, at least  
  
someone's talking to me. That indicates that my previous suspicion was  
  
wrong. I turn around and see Mr Mullally. A guy with long, greasy black  
  
hair, wearing a white Japanese robe thing (Prada's latest collection, if I'm  
  
not mistaken), filing nails painted black (or maybe just really dirty) and  
  
sitting on a white breeze block. Oh, I see what's happened here. I'm awake,  
  
but I somehow passed out in Buffy's Mom's art gallery. Only that art gallery  
  
doesn't look like this, and there's not another one in Sunnydale. And I  
  
*know* I would've remembered passing out in the Tate Modern. What the heck  
  
is going on here? Have I gone crazy and nobody thought it was important to  
  
tell me? Yeah, that'd be typical of Willow, and Buffy, and probably Oz with  
  
all his stoicy -- stoicness.  
  
"What's going on?" I demand, hands on slender hips, full on pout. "And for  
  
the record, you're a leather man. No Hell's Angel has ever been able to  
  
carry off white Prada, especially not with a complexion like that."  
  
The guy looks at me lazily for a moment before breaking into a laugh. "Oh  
  
dear, Cordelia," he rumbles in a voice that sounds like oil on gravel, if  
  
you can imagine that. "You haven't got it yet, have you? This isn't a  
  
promotion for the Prada Spring/Summer collection. This is God's fashion  
  
show. God label. Don't you know where you are?"  
  
I frown. "Does Stella McCartney design for you? I don't think I've heard--"  
  
"Take a look around," he suggests, and goes back to filing his nails.  
  
I spiral slowly, trying to take in all my surroundings. It's not hard. The  
  
color scheme is pretty much... well, white, as far as I can see, and there's  
  
something pretty disconcerting about it. I mean, you can't see where the  
  
floor turns into the walls and the walls turn into the ceiling. A girl like  
  
me could walk into stuff. "God's fashion show. God label," I repeat  
  
thoughtfully. "Some kind of weird art gallery, right? Or am I having a  
  
really awful dream?"  
  
"Your dreams are usually worse than this," he tells me bluntly. Which I  
  
already know, but I don't get how he does. I mean, he couldn't know that I  
  
dream about Willow being turned into a test tube and Xander bursting into  
  
flames. That one's more recent. "You're wrong on both counts. Did you ever  
  
see the film Ghost?"  
  
"Oh, please. Just because one nerdy guy cheated on me does not mean that I  
  
have to surrender to complete unending geekiness. I do *have* a life."  
  
"Not strictly true," he replies, and I wish that he'd be a little less blase  
  
when talking about my whole entire existence. "Allow me to introduce myself.  
  
I'm Azrael. Official title, Angel of Death. And you, Cordelia Chase, are  
  
currently in what I like to call Halfway House."  
  
I roll my eyes. "And I guess that has some dorky official title too. Who do  
  
you think I am? Did Xander put you up to this? I'm not stupid, you know."  
  
"Official title: The Stopping Point Between The Gutter And The Stars. But  
  
that's irrelevant. And I can assure you that a), I know exactly who you are,  
  
b), Xander did not put me up to this, and c), your intelligence is currently  
  
debatable." I continue to glare at him, and he sighs. "Cordelia, must I  
  
spell it out?"  
  
"I guess you must," I retort.  
  
"You're dead."  
  
*  
  
When my eyes flicker open (again), I'm still trapped in the Gap advert, and  
  
Azrael (stupid name, stupid haircut) is standing over me, still filing his  
  
stupid nails (I hope the polish chips) and looking amused. If I wasn't so  
  
pissed off I'd take back the comment about his complexion. He actually has  
  
pretty great skin.  
  
"How's the view from down there?" he mocks me, then laughs hoarsely. Ugh,  
  
he's so irritating!  
  
"Listen, you," I say crossly, clambering to my feet (thank God none of  
  
*them* can see me now). "One, I cannot be dead. I'm young, I'm healthy, and  
  
most of all, I'm pretty. I should be in hell, okay? It's a sin to look this  
  
good. And two, the view from down *there* is exactly the same as the view  
  
from up *here*, get it? So I think that maybe I get the right to laugh at  
  
*you*, seeing as how you're stuck in this same boring place for your whole  
  
entire -- forever, and at least *I* am going to get a change of scene!"  
  
"Rant all you like, honeybunch," Azrael says smoothly. "But get used to it.  
  
You. Are. Dead. No if's, but's, or refunds. D-E-A-D. And as it happens, I do  
  
get a change of scenery. Once a month, I get a weekend in my Hawaiian  
  
penthouse. So, nerr."  
  
"Oh, penthouse schmenthouse," I say childishly, and slump onto another  
  
breezeblock. "So, I'm dead. Explain. Defend. Since when, and how? 'Cause I  
  
don't remember a thing, and before you say anything stupid, I bet girls say  
  
that to you *all* the time."  
  
Azrael ignores my newfound immaturity (damn Xander ! I knew there would be  
  
some effect from hanging with him!) and replies, "A couple of vampires got  
  
you, in your high school library. About an hour ago, allowing for your  
  
fainting fit. Do you black out often? Just so I know whether to get smelling  
  
salts in."  
  
Now it's my turn to block out his immaturity. "In the library? Vampires?  
  
This is like the wackiest game of Clue ever. Read my lips: Buffy -- you know  
  
about Buffy, right? -- Buffy makes sure that vampires don't get me.  
  
Particularly in the high school library. That's like Slayer central. So why  
  
don't you toddle off and recheck your file and I'll wait on the breezeblock  
  
looking smug."  
  
Azrael raises his eyes heavenward and gets ready to reply when a high pitch  
  
beep starts emitting from the pocket of his robe. "Excuse me," he says,  
  
pulling a beeper out.  
  
"Oh, what-*ever*. Now I know you're kidding me. Am I supposed to believe  
  
that angels -- even ones that want to be the Fonz -- have beepers? Does  
  
Xander know how deeply unfunny his practical jokes are getting? Tell him  
  
from me: as the scale rises, the humor fades. Okay?"  
  
"If I were you, I'd step back."  
  
"What? I'm trying to argue with you! Look, the joke's over, okay? So I don't  
  
have to step--"  
  
"Cordelia, if I were you, I'd just do it."  
  
Despite everything, I'm about to move when I'm knocked to the floor by  
  
something extremely heavy. I shriek and drop to the ground. Winded, I shove  
  
at the dead weight in an attempt to get it off me and grab a handful of hair  
  
in my eagerness to be freed from this lump -- and scream again. It's blonde.  
  
  
  
"Ewww! Ewwwww!" I squeal, crawling away from the body quickly and staggering  
  
to my feet. "Azrael! You let a corpse drop on me! Do you know how much this  
  
skirt *cost*?"  
  
"I warned you," he says, uninterested. "You should have a closer look,  
  
really examine this 'corpse'. You might understand something about your  
  
earlier comment."  
  
"What? What comment?" I poke at the corpse gingerly with my toe and then  
  
dance back as the corpse sits up.  
  
It's Buffy.  
  
"Cordelia!" she yells, jumping to her feet.  
  
"Buffy!" I shout back. "You're -" I look at Azrael. "Her too?"  
  
He nods gravely. "'Fraid so. Oh, and another thing. Your fault."  
  
"My fault? I didn't kill her!"  
  
He sighs. "It's a long story. Let me explain..." 


	2. 

Part 2  
  
"What's going on?" Buffy asks, ignoring the Fonz on Halloween over there and looking straight at me. "Cordelia? Where are we?"  
  
I look at Azrael and boy am I grateful when he explains. "You're in Halfway House," he says.  
  
"Not in Heaven, not in Hell. Just ... dead."  
  
"Dead," she whispers. "I'm dead? Wow. I mean, I've been waiting for this... wow. It's such a let-down."  
  
"Thanks," he says huffily, sitting down on his breeze block. "What were you expecting? A  
  
welcoming party? You were killed by the Master, Buffy Summers. You're letting evil take over the world. Hence your 'Welcome to the Light Side' party being cancelled."  
  
"The Master?" I say, confused. "Buffy killed him. Ages back." I frown at her. "That was Angel's friend's friend, right?"  
  
"Darla," she says, agreeing. "Yeah. Yeah, I killed him. Fonzie, you have this all wrong."  
  
Azrael sighs and stops filing for a minute to click his fingers. A screen rolls down the wall (this place is so white I didn't even realise there was a wall there) and a scene plays on it.  
  
I watch in surprise as, firstly, it shows me getting killed by some vampires. And secondly, as Buffy is staked by the Master. Buffy appears equally shocked. "This is wrong," she says again.  
  
"Look. Cordelia, look, in the background."  
  
I peer at the still. "Oz?" I say, finally recognising Willow's boyfriend.  
  
"In front of Oz," she says, pointing.  
  
I see the redhead in front of him and nod. "Willow. So?"  
  
"So, look at her face," Buffy says softly. "That's not Willow. Not human Willow. She's a -"  
  
"Vampire," I finish quietly. "Azrael, something crazy is going on. Willow's not a vampire. Those vampires didn't kill me. And Buffy killed the Master a while back. I'm not dead."  
  
"Nice try," Azrael says lazily, clicking his fingers as the screen rolls back up. "You're in denial, girls. Common stage that all dead people go through. 'Oh no, I can't possibly be dead'. Well,  
  
you are, and just because your memories are garbled doesn't mean I'm sending you back down. You-" he points at Buffy -"got killed. You failed. It happens to the best of us. And you-" he points at me-"got killed. You didn't fail anyone as such, but still you're a weak little pathetic human being, so I reserve the right to laugh at you. You'll both get over it. Now," he goes to click his fingers again, "let's have a little look-see at your lives, shall we, and then we can all get the hell out of here."  
  
"No," Buffy says firmly. "Listen, dude, whoever you are-"  
  
"Azrael, Angel of Death," I say helpfully.  
  
"Right. Azrael. Something is wrong here, don't you get it? My last minutes on Earth were not  
  
spent fighting the Master. In fact, I think they were spent wondering where Cordelia was. But  
  
that's not the point. The point is, the people on that film, despite looking uncannily like Cordelia  
  
and I, were not Cordelia and I. We're not dead. Get it?"  
  
"Yeah," I chime in. Well, I can't have Buffy taking over as usual. I mean, this is my death as  
  
much as it is hers. "I'm not dead. I told you I was too pretty. Do something."  
  
Azrael sighs and leans back against the wall. "All right," he says finally. "Supposing there has  
  
been some terrible mistake. What do you propose I do about it?"  
  
"You're not going to do anything, are you?" Buffy realises suddenly. "Because you don't believe  
  
us."  
  
"Why should I do anything? It's all her bloody fault!" Azrael says in irritation, pointing at me  
  
again.  
  
"How? How is it my fault?" I cry. "You're just looking for someone to blame it on so that you  
  
don't have to admit that you have no idea how to deal with this."  
  
"I'm telling you, this whole sorry mess is on your shoulders," Azrael insists. "I can prove it."  
  
"Okay," Buffy says, stepping forward.  
  
He looks bemused. "What?"  
  
"Prove it. Show us how it's Cordelia's fault. Don't you have some kind of slide show you can show us?"  
  
He sighs and stands up, pulling a toothpick out of his pocket and sticking it in his mouth. "Right," he says wearily. "But it's a back in time job. Hope you can handle it."  
  
"We can handle it," Buffy says confidently.  
  
"Right," Azrael says, producing a piece of black chalk from his pocket. I'm beginning to wonder  
  
exactly what else is in those pockets. Maybe they're like Mary Poppins' never ending bag, or something. He leans down and chalks a neat, precise triangle on the ground. "Now. Everyone  
  
take a corner." He looks at me and smiles coldly. "You're going to regret making me do this,  
  
Chase."  
  
"It's Cordelia," I say equally icily, and step on the corner. "And I think you'll be the one with egg on your fa-"  
  
Oh. Man!  
  
I'm in trouble.  
  
I quickly step back from the triangle. "Actually, maybe you're right," I say hastily. "Let's not rush into this. I mean-"  
  
"Remembered Anyanka, have we?" Azrael says smugly. "Back in the triangle, Chase. There's no backing out now." 


	3. 

I sigh and step into the triangle. Azrael beams at me. "Don't frown, Chase. You'll get wrinkles."  
  
"Can it, Fonzie." I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. "Can we get this over and done with, please? It's getting old."  
  
"Shut up and let him get on with it, Cordy," Buffy snaps. She's looking pale. Why? I'm the one  
  
who's in the crap. How could I have forgotten about Anya? Still, I don't get how it all fits  
  
together. It's like the craziest jigsaw ever. Either that or I've stepped into the Star Wars  
  
universe. Weirdness abounds. I guess being dead isn't so different from being alive after all.  
  
Suddenly everything goes all black and I suppose something wacky and magical must be  
  
happening, but it seems pretty lame by those standards - like a power cut. Then the room is  
  
illuminated again and we're standing in some chamber thing. The one where we saw Oz stake  
  
Vamp Willow on the screen. There's a guy sitting in a chair at the far end and another, younger  
  
guy who looks scarily familiar talking to him. Buffy looks at Azrael and he nods. She heads  
  
down to the far end of the room, towards the figures. I stand stock still, but Mr Grabby Hands  
  
pulls me towards where Buffy's going. I am really beginning to dislike him.  
  
"Recognise anyone?" he says smoothly.  
  
"That's the Master," Buffy says shakily, pointing to the guy in the chair. He's old and ugly and  
  
bald. Why do people go through that? I mean, the skinhead era is so over. And they can do  
  
great things with wigs these days. "And that... that's Xander."  
  
Woah. Be kind. Rewind. "That's *not* Xander," I insist. But I'm not even convincing myself.  
  
Xander, my Xander, my cute little loser has some ugly prosthetic scar thing over his face that  
  
makes him look like a vampire. But he never was a vampire. How did wishing Buffy away make  
  
this happen? "How are you doing this?"  
  
"Well, it's not done with mirrors," Azrael says lazily. "Hurry up and gawp, would you? These  
  
people aren't going to stay frozen forever."  
  
I shake my head. But I'm not going to cry, because Fonzie would just love that. "What  
  
happened?"  
  
"This is what happens when you meddle with forces you don't understand," Azrael says with a  
  
smug smile. "I'll tell you exactly what happened. Xander and Willow were turned. They killed  
  
you. Buffy came from Cleveland too late, and was killed by the Master. Oz staked Willow, but  
  
I believe Xander is shortly to get revenge for that action. That's what happened. All because of  
  
a wish. Ain't life grand?"  
  
"A wish?" Good work, Buffy, pick a fine time to pay attention. "Whose wish? What did they  
  
wish for?"  
  
"Chase here -"  
  
"My name is Cordelia," I interrupt.  
  
"Darlin', you're dead. Your name is whatever I want it to be. Let me start again. Chase here  
  
wished that Buffy Summers never came to Sunnydale. As a result, no Slayer ever arrived, and  
  
vampires ruled the Hellmouth. Quite stupid, but then again, this is Cordelia we're dealing with."  
  
He resumes the filing of his nails.  
  
"Wait," Buffy says in confusion. "That means that in this place, where I never get to Sunnydale,  
  
Cordelia and I are dead. Right?"  
  
"Correct. And for a Brucie bonus, can you tell me the capital of Australia?" Azrael gives a  
  
phlegmy laugh.  
  
"But in that other place, where I do get to Sunnydale, and Willow and Xander are human and  
  
don't kill Cordelia, she and I are alive. Right?"  
  
Azrael's eyes narrow. "What are you trying to say?"  
  
"What I'm saying is, the Buffy and Cordelia that died here are different from the Buffy and  
  
Cordelia standing next to you. We're from the place where I did get to Sunnydale and Cordelia  
  
made the wish. I mean, this place where Willow's dead, we're not from there. We're from that  
  
other place. So you need the spirits - or bodies, whatever - of the Buffy and Cordelia that died  
  
in the wish place. Does that make sense?"  
  
"I knew you made a mistake!" I crow.  
  
"Shut up, Cordy," Buffy snarls at me. "You got us into this mess in the first place through your  
  
stupid petty jealousy."  
  
"Jealous? Me? Of you?" I laugh a little louder than is natural. "With that wardrobe? I mean, for  
  
God's sake. You're dating a member of the undead. And split ends? I think not. And as for-"  
  
"This changes nothing," Azrael intones calmly. "You are dead. Unless you can prove otherwise -  
  
which you can't - there's no way I can reinstate you in the living plane. I mean, do you know  
  
how many people come up here and say 'I can't be dead because...'? You're in denial. It'll  
  
pass."  
  
"What if we could prove it?"  
  
"There's no way."  
  
"But what if we could?" I'm getting excited now. I have an idea, and those little cartoons with  
  
lightbulbs over people's heads are so apt. You have no clue how accurate they are. "You'd have  
  
to make us real, right? And then everything would be okay again."  
  
"I suppose," Azrael relents. "But Buffy's still going to kill you the minute you become alive again.  
  
I hope you realise that."  
  
"You bet," Buffy mumbles.  
  
"I know how to make it right," I declare, and I really think I do. "This is what you have to do..." 


End file.
